Recipes

January 22, 2015

It's a cherry slab with a deep gouge. It weighs a ton. It dates back to my grad school days in Somerville, Massachusetts. Today, and every day, it's littered with papers, with news clippings, with stacks of fluorescent post-its. I neaten it often, but within seconds, it reverts to its natural state. One can only do so much.

An ornate, hand-blown glass holds my scissors, my Sharpies, my Uniball pens. A funky thing with serpentine feet, it was a gift from a stranger, a man who stopped at my table when I sold Ripe at farmers markets in 2012. He'd chatted me up for a good, long while, told tales of his art and his teenage daughter. He wasn't my standard book-buyer. Single dad, tattooed, leather-clad, he was rough-looking, but kind.

He left without a cookbook. That's okay, I thought. It's fine.

The next week he came to a reading I gave at the library. This time he'd brought his daughter. Hello, he said. Do you remember me? And I did.

He bought her my book, and gave me the glass. A gift, for no reason. I made this, he said, and thought you might like it. Though it sits on my desk day in and day out, I'd forgotten the story of that glass until now. I'm glad it came up. Thank you for that.

Above my desk is a small ledge with a bunch of bric-a-brac: a pile of gift cards no one remembers, a teetering stapler that falls on my laptop, a set of small baskets. One holds a double A battery, 2 binder clips, 3 rubber bands. Another has safety pins, stamps, and a USB key shaped like a strawberry.

Behind it are three photos: one each of my two boys and a third of my mother and grandmother. That third one is upside down, always. The wire frame that holds it is bent, so each time I straighten the photo it swings upside down again. I've stopped fixing it. My mother and grandma, long gone now, are perpetually upside down on my desk. But they're there. They're there.

While everyone else is cleansing and purifying and resolving and generally doing what they do in January, I'm like my desk: a jumble of this and that, all frenetic energy, disorganization, and riotous chaos. I'm the weird glass vessel, the wayward battery, the upside-down photo.

And it's great.

It's real.

Let others approach the year with reverence, restraint, with rigorous calm.

I'm living in color, moving full-throttle, seeking the shiny and bright, the slightly askew.

...

Recipe for Avocado, Persimmon, and Pomegranate Salad

A brash jumble of bright hues, variable textures, and contrasting flavors, this salad makes a perfect snack for one. Scale things up as high as you like.

December 15, 2014

Drizzle with honey 'til you can drizzle no more, then drizzle more, and more, until fingers stick and lips shine.

Kiss someone.

Kiss someone else.

You'd better stop kissing people.

Some of you have told me in the past that you're afraid to fry. Not fly, which I'd understand, but fry.

So every year when Hanukkah comes around, I need to nudge you to put fear aside and to get out the oil. There are so many excellent, worthwhile, truly terrifying things to be afraid of, but frying isn't one of them.

Eggnog seems so Christmas-y that using it in a Hanukkah fritter borders on the ridiculous, but I just looked it up, and I'm safe. In theFood Lover's Companion, the late Sharon Tyler Herbst wrote: "Liquor-free eggnog has long been served to convalescents and growing children as a tonic."

No mention of Christmas. And also...

As a tonic!

You know what a tonic is, right?

I just asked an authority (i.e. Siri), and she says tonic means: "of or relating to or producing normal tone in muscles or tissue."

You want to know how irresponsible media headlines happen?

Exactly like this.

EGGNOG PROVES BENEFICIAL FOR MUSCLE TONE.

...

{{p.s. I've got something up my sleeve for the new year. Go to Team Yogurt to sign up and be among the first to know.}}

..

Recipe for Eggnog Fritters with Nutmeg Honey

Fritter batter is always easy to whisk together, and starting with eggnog makes it easier still. The nutmeg honey really brings out the eggnog flavor, so don't skip it. (In fact, you may want to double it.) Not Jewish? Totally irrelevant. Make these for Hanukkah, or Christmas, or any time you need a tonic.

For the fritters: In a large bowl, sift together the flour, malted milk powder, sugar, baking powder, nutmeg, and salt. In a medium bowl, whisk the eggnog and egg. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry and whisk to combine. (Make sure to moisten any dry bits at the bottom of the bowl.) Set aside to rest while you heat up the oil.

Affix a candy thermometer to the side of a deep saucepan. Fill with 1 to 1-1/2 inches oil, set over medium-high heat, and bring the oil up to between 350°F and 375°F.

When the oil has reached the target range, drop 1 heaping tablespoon of batter for each fritter into the oil. Work in batches (I make 4 at a time), and do not crowd the saucepan. Fry for 1 to 3 minutes per side, flipping gently once. Remove with a slotted spoon to a paper towel-lined plate.

For the Nutmeg Honey: Combine the nutmeg and honey in a small microwaveable bowl. Heat very gently at 50% power for about 15 seconds, just to loosen. Drizzle over the fritters and serve, making an additional batch of nutmeg honey if desired.

December 04, 2014

Picture yourself on the subway watching the world stream by. It's a whole lot of fast-moving darkness, all nondescript, underground blur.

As you approach the station, though, things change. Colors start to appear, then shapes, and finally, as the train grinds to a halt, you can make out billboards, crowds of people, and, if you're lucky, maybe something unexpected or delightful. A group of performers, say, a couple kissing, two young sisters hand in hand.

This is mostly how I feel about Twitter.

I've been on the Twitter-train for years now, and most of the time, I scroll the feed pretty mindlessly. Lots of promotion, in-case-you-missed-its, mindless blather. Every now and then, though, BAM. Something truly delightful catches my eye. I click, and a gear locks firmly into place.

A few weeks ago, Grace Bonney, the creator of the visually stunning website Design Sponge, posted a link on her Twitter feed to a short film by Gael Towey & Co. In Towey's series called Portraits in Creativity, the filmmaker profiles Maira Kalman, the brilliant illustrator behind many a New Yorker cartoon (and cover). Kalman has also written countless books, including one of my all-time favorite kids' books, Ooh-la-la, Max in Love. I must have read this to my kids hundreds of times.

Do yourself a favor: Make something hot to drink and sit back and watch Towey's 14-minute film. If you're at all creative, if you have a relationship with New York, if you like art and museums and books and talented, inspiring people, even if you just need a lift, I highly recommend it.

The film is brief, but Kalman utters several notable lines, including this one: "Everything that's fantastic looks so simple."

I wrote that down and have been thinking about it, turning it over and over like a butterscotch on my tongue. I love that line. It tastes sweet.

And it applies not just to the visual arts, of course, but to so many genres: Clean lines appeal in design, in architecture, in fashion; uncluttered spaces soothe and please; clear, unmuddied flavors ring true on the palate.

It's terribly hard to simplify. It's a challenge for so many of us.

But when we do create something simple that's also fantastic, that beckons and seduces without too much time, effort, equipment, or fuss, it's deeply satisfying. Much more so than all the bells and whistles in the world.

Where simple meets fantastic is my favorite destination. It's where the train stops, and I take the time to really look around.

...

Recipe for SexyToast

A few months ago, the food media was filled with tales of restaurants selling $4 plates of artisanal toast. Me? I'm not a fan of gentrification, but a well-made plate of toast does get my attention. Ditch the butter and jam just this once and heap your toast with sweet dates, toasted almonds, and a fine dusting of cocoa. Coconut oil makes a luxe, flavorful emollient.

Simple, sexy, perfect.

Note: You can toast your almonds by shaking them back and forth in a dry skillet over medium-high heat for 2 to 3 minutes.

November 14, 2014

It was Colin's idea to start playing, then our son Alex joined in, and now the three of us play on weekends while Andrew runs the nearby track or reads a book in the sun.

I was never a competitive player, but as a teenager I played a respectable game; I was good. Not excellent, not great, but better than you might think if you'd known me back then. Happily, I've still got technique, a nice swing. Sadly, I'm now lazy. I'm trying harder the more we play, though. I'm striving to hustle.

My favorite part isn't what you'd expect. It should be the outdoors, the time with my family, but I think it's something else. It's the sound I hear when I slam the ball right in that magical spot on the strings, dead center or maybe a touch below, when I know, just by hearing that ping, that the shot will be good, that it'll land where I intend. I wait for that moment, that sound. When it happens, I hear potential, and that drives me to keep playing, keep improving, even when I'm lazy, or I miss, or I tip the racket up too much and overshoot the baseline by a good foot and a half.

Though I love that sound, the ping isn't everything. Plenty of shots go in even if I hit them too low on the racket or too far to the left. I can compensate with my body and the shot sometimes still lands. It's like in basketball, which I also played as a kid: the all-net swish sounds the best, is the most satisfying, but you still get your points even if you bank the shot off the backboard or the ball swirls the rim before dropping in the hoop. The ping is the apex, but it's not the whole mountain.

It's not just tennis, or basketball, or sports in general where we seek this moment. We aim for the sweet spot in all that we do. In work, in art, we lean towards that ping, reaching, stretching, sometimes contorting painfully to get what we're after.

Cause when we do land the shot, when we hear that clear, perfect sound, that gorgeous, resonant, clarion ping, everything seems so good, so right, if just for a beat, if just for a single, fleeting moment.

...

Recipe for Pumpkin Muffins with pepita sugar

Yogurt, almond meal, and coconut oil join up in these supremely tender muffins. The shimmery topping is perfectly sweet, thanks to grinding some sugar with a handful of salted pepitas. I added a cup of whole wheat pastry flour to the batter to underpin the nutty flavors, but the overall impact -- of pumpkin, of spice, of coconut, of almond -- is delicate and well-balanced, more purring kitten than roaring lion.

Preheat the oven to 400°F with a rack in the center. Fit a 12-cup muffin tin with paper liners.

Make the muffins. Into a large bowl, sift the two flours, pumpkin pie spice, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Add the almond meal and give everything a good fluff with your largest whisk. Make a well. Add the pumpkin, yogurt, coconut oil, eggs, milk, almond extract, and sugar. Whisk the ingredients in the center of the bowl, then slowly begin combining them with the dry ingredients. Swap the whisk for a large silicone spatula or wooden spoon to finish beating the ingredients, making sure no floury pockets hide at the bottom of the bowl. (The batter should be quite thick, but you can splash in a teaspoon or two of extra milk if needed.) Divide evenly among the muffin liners, filling each cup to the top. Bake 22-24 minutes, until the caps are nicely browned and crisp in spots and a skewer comes out clean.

Meanwhile, making the topping. In a spice grinder, combine the pepitas and sugar and grind until powdery. Transfer to a small bowl. Place the 3 tablespoons liquid coconut oil in a second small bowl.

Dip and cool. When the muffins are ready, transfer them to a rack. Working with one muffin at a time while they're still warm, invert each muffin, dipping first in coconut oil and then in the pepita sugar. (Swirl as you dip to coat the entire muffin cap.) Return to the rack to finish cooling. Repeat with remaining muffins. Store leftover muffins in foil, and split and toast the following day.

October 21, 2014

My neighbor's son, all of three, maybe four years old, likes to ride his bike in the autumn sun while his mom reads a magazine in the driveway.

I know this scene.

I lived this scene.

Not long ago, it was my scene, my life. I was the mom in the driveway.

But now I'm just the neighbor. I wave at the mom, then crane my neck to see her boy circle up and down the block, making sure to keep him in my vision as I back my car out to fetch my teenage sons from school.

...

The first inversion happened years ago, probably, but it just happened again, and now I'm paying attention.

We're driving home from school -- one boy in front, one in back -- and a song comes on the radio. It's called Shattered, by a band named O.A.R., and though the song title and band name may not ring a bell, I'm sure you've heard it.

I'm singing along in my terrible voice, and from the backseat, where he sits with his books and his trombone, Andrew says matter-of-factly, Hear that chord? It's a first inversion.

I stop singing.

What's that? I ask, as I have no idea.

It's a triad or seventh chord whose bass note is the second note in the chord rather than the root, he answers.

He's fifteen years old, and I haven't a clue what he's saying. Not the faintest idea in the world.

He continues.

First inversion chords place more emphasis on a note that's not actually the root of the chord, so they sound suspended and unresolved.

As though this helps.

And Alex, who's thirteen, starts nodding his head, agreeing, spinning the radio dial so the bass sounds louder, widening his eyes and willing me to hear it. Do you hear it? Alex asks me.

He, a trumpet player, understands what his brother is saying.

I, I think so, I lie. I think I hear it.

I don't hear it.

Somewhere deep, maybe in the soles of my feet or the marrow of my bones, I knew the day would come when my kids would start teaching me things. Not just how to be more patient or a better person or whether I'm supposed to press alt or fn while also hitting Print Screen (I always forget), but whole new types of information that seem to emerge from nowhere.

This first inversion stuns me with how literal it is.

In the span of one pop song from 2012, by a band whose name I'll surely forget as soon as I'm done typing it here, the teacher has become the student, the child the source of his parent's knowledge.

I listen quietly, hoping to hear the chord.

But just like that, the song ends, and I turn my attention to the road ahead.

...

Recipe for Inverted Caramelized Apple Muffins

To make these hearty autumnal muffins, prep a caramelly apple topping, but place it in the bottom of your muffin cups. Scoop the batter over the apples, then bake. When they emerge from the oven, they'll look normal and unassuming, until the inversion changes everything, making the top the bottom and the bottom the top.

Prep: Preheat the oven to 400°F with a rack in the center position. Generously grease a 12-cup muffin tin with soft butter. Set aside.

Make the caramelized apple topping: Set the 3 tablespoons butter and the 1/3 cup sugar in a small nonstick skillet over medium heat. As the butter melts, stir it a bit into the sugar. Once the butter has fully melted, add the apples and toss well to coat. Now leave it alone to bubble and caramelize, about 12 minutes or thereabouts, until the apples are thoroughly soft and the sauce is lovely and brown. Pull from the heat and immediately spoon into the muffin cups, dividing evenly. (Don't wash the skillet.)

Make the muffins: Add the 6 tablespoons butter to the still-warm skillet. Set it back on the burner (don't turn the burner on) and let the residual heat melt it while you carry on with the batter. Sift the two flours, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt into a large bowl. Stir in the oats. In a medium bowl, whisk the yogurt, eggs, sugar, and vanilla. Slowly whisk in the now-melted butter. Pour the wet ingredients over the dry and fold to incorporate, taking care to moisten any floury bits hiding at the bottom of the bowl. Spoon the batter into the muffin cups (over the apples), dividing evenly.

Bake and finish: Bake the muffins for 20 to 25 minutes, until golden brown and firm. Cool on a rack for 10 minutes, then loosen the muffins gently with a spoon. They should remove easily. Lift and invert, placing apple-side up on a cooling rack. Some caramelly apple bits will surely hang out in the muffin tin, so ease them up with a spoon and drape over the muffins so they can join their brethren.

September 11, 2014

Colin envisions the life he wants. Then he makes things happen. He's a directed dreamer, a hardworking visionary, an idealist and an idea-ist.

And while his feet remain firmly rooted in the possible, what's possible for him is very broadly drawn, with fungible borders that shift, stretch, and swell.

We talk of our plans, of our dreams. I etch in pencil, he in pen, then we both grab the charcoal. We press hard.

One of those dreams for our future:

A cabin.

Rustic and plain and just for us two. With a kitchen that's small, no-nonsense, and bright.

We cook simply. Some lentils, a stew. Bubbling crocks of this thing and that. I knead bread in a faded smock, breathing flour.

There's a garden outside. And recently, he told me, fig trees. A whole mess of them.

Fig trees!

I like this dream. It's aligned with my own.

We have a fig tree now, in the present. A young one. It gave up four figs last year. This year fifteen, maybe twenty. Next year... who knows? They're bright green kadotas with flesh pink and lusty. My knees go slack when I eat them.

But fig season's drawing to an end. The tree's fine, but the fruit's near-gone.

The leaves, however, linger. They lilt and they wave.

As the wind brushes by, they consort, those two -- the wind and the leaves -- all rustle, all bustle, in sync and cahoots.

I move in, eager.

What say you, Leaves?

Keep dreaming, they answer.

Keep dreaming.

---

Recipe for Fig Leaf Ice Cream

This clean, beautifully pure ice cream was directly inspired by a bowl of fig leaf ice cream I enjoyed at Lovely's Fifty-Fifty, a delightful wood-fired pizza and ice cream restaurant in Portland, Oregon. Kim Boyce, who owns the Bakeshop bakery in town, recommended it to me, and I'm so glad she did.

Since I don't have the restaurant's ice cream recipe, I made up my own. Its flavor is subtle, with notes of coconut (though there's no coconut in it) and vanilla. Smashing a few figs into the custard is on my to do list the next time my tree produces.

In a medium saucepan, combine the cream, milk, fig leaves, and sugar. Stir over medium-high heat until the sugar dissolves. When the mixture simmers, pull the saucepan from the heat, cover, and set aside to steep for 45 minutes. Strain out the leaves, pressing them to extract maximum flavor. Stir in the vanilla.

Chill for at least 2 hours or up to 2 days. Churn in an ice cream maker.

The trees outside my window are still very green, except the tippy tops. The tops cast a yellow glow as the wind nudges them towards the sun. A few birds glide about, and when they talk, I'm finally sure they're speaking a different language than the smoke detector. They're chirping; it's cheeping.

Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Cheep. Buzz. Chirp.

A gate creaks open. It's not mine, but I hear it. My street's L-shaped, and I'm nearish to the L's right angle, so when something happens in that spot, I can hear it when my window's open.

I nibble Cheez-Its. One after another after another. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

It's not my fault.

We had a block party on Monday, and someone left a huge container of Cheez-Its behind. My husband was the last to clean up, so he brought in all the trash and leftover food. He transferred the Cheez-Its to a zip-top bag and put it where I could find it. Or at least where I could see it and not unsee it once I'd seen it.

He's a good man.

I haven't eaten Cheez-Its in years.

They taste like orange salt.

I picture an orange sea, somewhere far. On its banks, tall pillars of Cheez-It salt wait to be hand-harvested. The seafaring salt-harvesters all have orange fingers, much as I do now. Like henna. But instead of fading over time, the color deepens.

Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Creak. Crunch. Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Creak. Crunch.

I finally get up.

To quiet my mind I change the soundtrack.

I mute the smoke detector, the birds, the A/C, the siren, the gate, and finally, haltingly, the Cheez-Its.

I choose the chop of a knife, the click of a gas stove, the sizzle of oozing brie as its insides melt, splattering the red-hot base of my trusty cast-iron pan.

...

Recipe for Squash Blossom Quesadillas with radicchio, avocado and brie

A skosh bitter and creamy from both brie and avocado, these slap-together, end-of-summer quesadillas make quick work of any squash blossoms still scattered throughout your garden. I'm partial to corn tortillas, but small flour tortillas will work just fine.

Heat a cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat for about 2 minutes, until hot but not smoking.

On a work surface, generously coat the tops-only of all 8 tortillas with cooking spray (or lightly brush with oil). Flip 4 of the tortillas over; these will now be the bottoms.

Depending on the size of your skillet, you can make all 4 quesadillas at once, or work in batches.

Transfer the tortilla bottom(s) to the skillet, sprayed-side down. Top with one-quarter each of the squash blossoms, radicchio, brie, and avocado, making sure not to pile the filling too high. (Extras can be stirred together to make a unique salsa or little salad.) Cover with the tortilla tops, sprayed-side up.

Cook about 5 minutes total, flipping once and pressing gently on the tops with a spatula, until the cheese melts and both the top and the bottom are golden brown. Let stand for 1 minute before slicing into wedges.

August 28, 2014

The girl I took care of after French camp that summer, the summer of '91.

I'd just returned from a college semester in Nancy, France, a time both exhilarating and traumatic. Exhilarating because I'd forged good friendships with students from Brazil, Denmark, Sweden, and Syria. I ate Nutella. I gushed independence. I spoke French all the freaking time.

Traumatic because one day in early March, my long-divorced parents called me together to say that my mother had cancer. Over a crackly, overseas line, I heard my mother's voice, then my father's, and in that instant I knew that something was very, very wrong.

I flew home.

I stayed for a week, maybe two, to be with my mom and to plan for the coming summer. Once she stabilized, I figured, I'd return to France to finish the semester and sit for exams, but then I'd come home again. I'd spend summer in New York instead of in Europe as originally planned.

Before I flew back to France, I talked my way into an interview with the director of a French-American day camp in upper Manhattan. I was uncharacteristically aggressive about pursuing a job as a counselor, one they hadn't started hiring for yet as it was still early spring. But I knew once I went back to France I'd miss the hiring window, so in a create-your-own-opportunity kind of way, I asked for an interview and got the job.

And it was a great summer. My mom stabilized, I loved working at the camp, and I was giddy to be using the French I'd studied so hard to master during my time abroad. I took on the optional role of bus counselor, too. That was the first and last summer I drank coffee. I'd meet the bus each morning at a small deli and treat myself daily to one of those blue and white coffee cups with a picture of the Acropolis.

During camp, I bonded with one little girl in particular. She's the one whose name now escapes me.

When the July session ended, and I went to hug her goodbye, her mother asked if she could hire me for three weeks as her daughter's full-time sitter. The timing was perfect. With just a month left before heading back for my senior year at Haverford, I'd get more time with this kid I adored, get paid for it, and continue to speak French, since her parents really wanted to extend her exposure.

Each morning, I'd go to her apartment. We'd play games on the floor and speak French when her mom was around, and then around noon we'd head out to the park. Day in and day out, her mother would pack her favorite lunch: a smoked mozzarella and cucumber sandwich in a brown paper sack. She'd pack one for me, too.

We'd play in the park, nibble our sandwiches, and laugh in a foreign tongue while the August sun licked the back of our knees.

...

Recipe for Smoked Mozzarella, Cucumber, and Tomato Sandwiches

The beauty of this sandwich is its sheer ease and the way the cool, crisp cucumber plays against the meaty, smoky mozzarella. I added tomato the last time I made it, and because it's August and tomatoes are at their peak, I urge you to follow my lead. Once they're gone, though, stop with the tomato business. The sandwich is just as good without them.

For each sandwich:

A few slices juicy, summer-ripe tomatoA few rounds cucumberA few thick slices smoked mozzarellaMayo, if you roll that wayBread

You could make this fancier by slathering on some tapenade or pesto in place of the mayo, or add slivers of roasted red pepper or rounds of grilled eggplant, but once you start going in this direction, the beautiful simplicity of this sandwich and its clean flavors risks getting lost. Don't make life difficult.

That it also doesn't have gluten is both the point and beside the point.

Let me explain.

Berkeley-based photographer and mother Erin Scott found out several years ago that she has celiac disease, that autoimmune disorder that damages the gut. She later learned that her two school-age kids are gluten-intolerant as well. This news could send anyone into a deep, mournful funk.

But Erin is a food lover, a gardener, a world traveler, and an optimist. She's a ray of sunshine in person-form, a lovely, friendly, serene woman with an easy manner and a quiet, from-within light.

Though getting any kind of medical diagnosis can be exceedingly difficult (to say the least), Erin soon began to focus on all those foods that were still safe for her and her family to enjoy.

Look, I tend to shy away from special-diets books: books for vegans, for raw foodists, for fat-avoiders, for those who think carbs are Satan. I aim for balance in all things, and because I'm allergic and intolerant to so few foods, I have wide dietary berth. I'm extremely lucky.

My problem with some -- not all, certainly -- special diets books is this: their authors' tendency to replace verboten foods with pale substitutes to try to mimic familiar dishes without the offending ingredients. Doing this well takes real skill, but too often the results can be wildly inconsistent. It's also why I avoid foods with quotation marks, like "chik'n" nuggets or soy-based "cheese."

Erin's food happens to be gluten-free, but because her focus shines so brightly on everything else, those of us who can eat gluten pay its absence no mind.

(Do I care that Erin's steak with gremolata has no gluten? I do not. But if you or someone you love eats gluten-free, you will care, you must care, and therein lies the magic: We'll all enjoy this food. The lack of gluten is thus the very point and entirely beside the point, simultaneously.)

But perhaps what I like most about her food is its simplicity. Whether in the steak pictured above; a simple saute of squid with big green olives, thyme, and lemon; pistachio kebabs with beef and lamb (which I made as burgers); vegetable salads galore; or a straightforward pot of beans, Erin's flavor combos appeal in spades.

When served with a bowl of cool, fresh fruit, cucumber rounds, and sliced avocado, this steak makes an ideal summer meal. In her recipe, Erin calls for hanger steak, a cut my local market only stocks frozen. Because I wanted dinner in an hour, my butcher recommended flat iron steak instead. It was terrific, and at $8 / pound, it was also a relatively inexpensive cut. Erin says rib eye makes a great option, too.

Adapted very closely from Yummy Supperby Erin Scott, with permission from Rodale Books

Pat the steak dry with paper towels. Sprinkle both sides generously with salt. Let stand at room temperature for 30 minutes before grilling. On a cutting board, mound the parsley, lemon zest, and garlic. Mince together, then transfer to a small bowl. Season to taste.

Preheat a grill to medium-high heat (400°F to 450°F). Scrape the grates completely clean. Brush the steak lightly with olive oil on both sides, then transfer to the hot grill.

Grill with the lid shut until done to your liking, about 8 minutes per side for medium-rare, turning once. Remove from the grill and season again lightly with salt and pepper. Sprinkle the gremolata on top, pressing gently. Let rest for 10 minutes before slicing.

I needed to bring a high-yield dessert to a friend's oneg, that gathering after a Jewish service where congregants shmooze, drink coffee, and nibble treats. I was going to bring cookies, but then, you know, THE PLUMS happened. I alighted on the idea of bar cookies: a lemon square or pecan bar concept, but with a roasted plum topping instead.

With plums that ooze and collapse under heat and a tender cookie crust, this sheet pan recipe has a wow-factor that justifies its up-front work. You'll even get a bonus: extra plum syrup to drizzle over your morning yogurt.

A few notes: Plan ahead! The bars need to chill overnight so the juices set up and the bars cut neatly. Also, I have a 5-quart Kitchen-Aid stand mixer, so I made this crust in one fell swoop. If you have a smaller mixer, you may need to work in batches. I also roast the plums in two separate rectangular Pyrex baking dishes. My oven can accommodate the crust and the two plum dishes all at once on three racks, but if your oven's smaller, roast the plums once the crust comes out.

Finally, this recipe makes a ton. Feel free to cut it in half and bake the bars in a smaller vessel.

Prep. Preheat the oven to 350°F with three racks evenly spaced in the oven, if possible. (If you don't have three racks, you may cook the crust first and the fruit once the crust comes out.) Line a rimmed half-sheet pan (18 x 13 x 1) with parchment. Rub a bit of butter along the bottom of two ovenproof glass baking dishes. (Rectangular pyrexes work great if you have them.)

Make the crust. In the bowl of a stand mixer, cream the butter and brown sugar on medium speed. Reduce the speed to the lowest setting ("stir" on mine), and add the flour and salt in 3 additions, pulsing them in. Some will probably fly out of your mixer. Toss it back in or wipe it up later. It's okay! Work in the flour in this way for a minute or two, until large, even clumps form and the batter looks smooth. Drop big handfuls of batter over the prepared half-sheet pan. Using your hands, slowly press it along the bottom and up the rims, creating a little ledge as you go. I use the bottom of a metal cup measure to tamp down the dough. Work slowly, and get it as even as you can. You can pop it in the lowest rack of the oven right away or wait until you've prepped the fruit. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, until firm and golden brown. Cool completely.

Meanwhile, make the filling. In a large bowl, toss the fruit, melted butter, cinnamon, and cardamom. Divide among the two Pyrex baking dishes, scraping in any juices. Bake for about 50 minutes, stirring once or twice, until very soft and the juices bubble vigorously. I start it at 350°F while the crust bakes, and once the crust comes out I up the temp to 375°F for the last few minutes. This concentrates the juices. Cool completely.

Assemble. Once the crust and filling are completely cool, use a slotted spoon to transfer the fruit onto the crust in a single layer. Refrigerate overnight, uncovered. (The substantial leftover juices may be tipped into a jar and refrigerated, where they will thicken into a lovely sauce for spooning over your morning yogurt.) The next day, cut the cold bars into 2" squares. I place them on cupcake-liners. Sprinkle with powdered sugar just before serving.

Welcome to my blog. My name is Cheryl Sternman Rule. I’m a Silicon Valley food writer with a lot to say and a keen desire to share it with a broad audience. I write cookbooks and freelance for numerous national publications. To read my full bio and see samples of my print work, visit my portfolio website at cherylsternmanrule.com.